Smoke Rings

The purple smoke rings float upwards
one after another they chase dreams.
But in the end they crash and burn.
The ashtray is full of a thousand cigarettes.
Burned into rings of smoke.
Sometimes in the silence of my room.
half asleep I forget you have gone.
We are sitting quietly
it it as if you are in your chair.
A good book open
and your glasses waiting
to read the next chapter.
I don’t look up from my newspaper
and comfort flows through the world
like a warm front in the summer.
Then it returns the loss of you.
isn’t it odd that the pain of loss
never lessons even when
waking from a dream?
Reality is like smoke rings
floating in their mystical beauty
only to dissipate
when they fly too high.